Don't Say Forever
by The Odd Life of Felicity Rose
Summary: "When we don't know who to hate, we just end up hating ourselves." Stuck in a dirty jail cell, Fitz is forced to think of everything that led up to his incarceration. Without thinking twice about it, he finally gets his whole story out in the open including when he met her and how things went terribly, terribly wrong. *Fitz/Bianca*
1. Chapter 1

**Hey guys. It's me, Mossface. I know I've been all over the place with my stories. I just wanted to let you know that I deleted Just Believe and am starting over with the same concept. I hope you all enjoy!**

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"So," says a deep, scratchy voice that matches the face I see in front of me perfectly. "You're the new guy."

I look him up and down a few times, sizing up the guy I'll be spending a lot of time with from then on out. He's tall; almost my hight. A pink scar travels across his flat face, reaching from one ear to the corner of his small mouth. I wonder what he did to earn that scar, but I don't ask because I know he'll tell me on his own soon enough.

"Yeah, that's me," I say making a sharp connection with his eyes as I look up.

For five minutes, we just stand there, sizing each other up. Every once in awhile, we'll make eye contact. He pushes his violent thoughts into my core while I can't muster anything but anger. Every time he meets my eyes, my anger is built up even higher than before. I want to think of the danger I could be putting myself into. This guy could be a dominant one, feeling as if everybody should bow down to him. Here I was, standing my ground and trying to make him back off first. All I can think of, though, is Mom. Mom and Dad and B.

A final time he looks at me, my concentrated anger seems to affect him. For the first time, I see fright in him. He covers it as soon as I notice, but it doesn't matter. In that split-second, I saw a scared deer trapped in the headlights of a delinquent's anger. He wants me to think he's tough, but in all reality, he's not. He's just like me; stuck in a place full of people that could easily end his life. We're one and the same.

I relax my shoulders and see him do the same. He knows he's been caught. In an easy manner, he says, "I'm Peter."

"Fitz," I respond. I turn my back on Peter, showing him that I trust him.

Trust. Such a fragile thing. Easy to break, too. Peter could hit my spine and mess up my body. He could go for my head. He could do anything, really, but I trust him. I wonder why I trust him but I didn't trust the guards that dumped me here, the same why I trusted B, but I didn't trust my parents.

Maybe I trust Peter because he understands me. He understands what it feels like being ripped roughly without a warning from the life you've always lived and dropped into a whole new game. He understands what it feels like to not know the new rules to follow in order to live. He understands how I feel and I didn't even have to try to explain.

"Peter," I begin, but feel my voice break off. Angrily, I slam my head against the wall I'd leaned up against some time in the process of showing him my trust. I jerk my neck up and down again and again and again. I feel skin breaking. A few drops of blood drop tauntingly slowly down my forehead, pooling on top of my eyebrows before they all tumble into my eyes, mingling with the salty tears that had formed when I called his name. Blinking them away, I slowly bring myself to a stop. Peter is barking something at me. I turn to him. He looks pissed. Finally, the pounding in my hears hushes and I can hear what he's saying.

"-the hell is the matter with you? You just got here and you're already hurting yourself! I mean, Christ! They're gonna think I did it, ya asshole!"

And then I laugh. I can't control myself.

"Fitz! Get ahold of yourself," He says, grabbing my shoulders. At first, I flinch away, not used to any kind of friendly touch. Then, just because it feels so damn comforting, I let my body fall against his. It feels right to have a friend like this. I cry and laugh for awhile. He laughs with me, slowly at first, and then big, full noises when he sees the reality of the situation. Two huge guys, who barely know each other, are laying with each other on the diseased floor of a jail cell, laughing and crying. If anybody sees us, they'll assume the worst.

"Peter," I finally start again when the oxygen in my lungs is back to a comfortable level. "Why are you here?"

He laughs a final time, slow and spaced out, before he looks at me. "Should I tell you?"

I don't know what to say, so I nod.

"It was a mistake. A gun went off and blew my girlfriend's brains out. It was a mistake. I didn't mean to. But then again, that's what they all say here, ya know? 'It's a mistake. Give me another chance.' What makes me any different?"

"I didn't make a mistake," I say quietly.

"What," He asks, not sure he heard me right, "are you saying?"

I take a deep breath, feeling the polluted air stream down my throat. It reminds me how thirsty I am. "I stabbed him on purpose. He deserved it."

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**And that concludes your teaser(: I hope you liked it. Please review, favorite, add to your alert list, whatever. I love you all and will try to have the actual first chapter up tomorrow!**

**-Mossface**


	2. Chapter 2

When I was seven, the whole world was different; it was my playground. It didn't matter what everybody else was going through. The sickness in the world was nonexistent to my young mind and nothing could go ever wrong. Whether the sun was out, rolling playfully behind thick cotton balls in the sky before exposing itself again, hiding out as rain poured down from the angry sky, I was outside.

The trees, long, lanky, and reaching for the sky, were the only thing that kept my cover from creatures of my creation as leaves slowly tumbled down off of the wind-shaken limbs. I'd crawl across the ground from tree to tree in the park, not caring as I heard snickering. Secretly, I always hoped that somebody would join me. They never really did. I'd wait for hours and hours, hoping to find that would kid who would shuffle over and shyly ask, "Can I play, too?" It never happened.

As the sun sank, I'd grab my bike and walk it slowly up the big hill to my house. I dreaded going home. I never got to throw open the front door and hear parents say, "Mark, don't you come in here like you own the place! Now go wash your hands and get ready for supper." No, I didn't hear anything to assure me that my parents were in charge of the house and had everything in order. Sometimes, Dad would call out and ask if it was me. I wanted to sit in the choking silence and wait for him to come check, but I knew he wouldn't. Instead, I'd respond quickly before running to my room and locking myself away for the night.

In the summers before we started going to the lake, I'd sit home for a few hours in the morning and watch Mom in the playroom. "Playroom" wasn't the right word because there were no toys, but that's what Dad called it. In the room stood a little, brown table with a single chair tucked underneath it. Atop laid one puzzle broken into a thousand pieces. A large dog with a big, red bandana had once been the finishing product, but Mom's rough fingertips had long since rubbed the colors away. I often asked Dad why he didn't buy her a prettier puzzle. He would shake his head and walk away, leaving me to ponder the answer on my own.

At such a young age, I never wondered why she only had one puzzle or how she always seemed to put it together in the same order every time, working on it for the same amount of time every, single day. It didn't strike me as odd that Mom would refuse to eat if we didn't have eggs or wheat bread or the red Sunny D poured into a Mickey Mouse cup by seven thirty a.m. sharp. As I grew up and started inviting my friends over to stay the night (Dad always insisted that Mom loved seeing me with my friends), they asked questions, invading my ears as I tried to fix them the snacks that Mom and Dad didn't make. I blew every question off, not even pausing to think about how to answer. I didn't find it necessary.

Mom was Mom. Dad knew that better than anybody else. He knew her every quirk and knew how to work around them. It always amazed me that he could be in love without being able to touch her. Never once did I see them kiss. His hand would never lovingly find hers as we sat on the couch and watched Saturday morning cartoons. One time, he put his foot on hers, stroking it once, and she started shaking and screaming so violently, he had to leave the room for her to calm down. I never understood it, but I never questioned it, either. I knew Mom and Dad loved each other and found their own ways to prove it. At first, I found ways to show them, too.

I cleaned the porch off more than once, silently marveling at all of the secret wonders that were hidden there. I found feathers in shades of purple that I'd never seen birds before. Sea shells with thin, skeleton-finger cracks running through them would make a trail around the edges, leading to old rubber balls and army men. I didn't know who left the treasures for me to find, but I thought it was Dad. He knew I cleaned the porch for Mom and wanted to make it interesting for me. I would clean the kitchen and my bedroom, too. I cleaned Mom's playroom once, too. When I came back from school, I went upstairs to fine Dad trying to make a mess of it again as Mom sat in oblivion in the kitchen, munching nonchalantly on a graham cracker covered with the chunky peanut butter that everybody else hated the taste of.

"What's wrong?" I asked, not quite sure whether I should step all the way into the room or not.

The way he ran around, trying to mess up every single ting I had fix, I thought he didn't hear me. I was about to ask again when his head shot around. He looked at me for a second before huffing. "What did you do, Mark?"

My face burned from my hurt pride and my eyes stung from the hot tears pooling there. Even at seven-years-old, I knew that I had done something terribly, terribly wrong. Dad's movements were sharp, jerky. He was trying so hard to change everything that I had worked three long, hard hours for. It made me want to to scream and cry and break something. It was the first time I'd felt anger towards who Mom was because, somehow, I knew this was Mom's fault. I knew she was the reason Dad was ruining the perfectly clean room I had tried so hard to work on. I wanted to run downstairs and slap the graham cracker right out of her hand, watching the tears gather in her cloudy, brown eyes, as they were in mine.

As soon as I thought the words, I hit my head against the doorframe. I wanted the thoughts gone. Never had I thought something so hurtful. I had lost who I was, but I was back.

"I'm sorry, Dad..."

He looked up at me once again, anger on his face. "Just go downstairs and make sure she doesn't need anything."

I turned to leave.

"Oh, and Mark?" He added. "Don't ever come in here again."

And that was end of the precious time I spent with Mom every morning. No more would I watch her hands move swiftly to put different pieces together. I wanted to be sad, but I felt something else. Anger. Dad humiliated me all because of her. There was no way I'd ever forget that.


	3. Chapter 3

The summer I was twelve, something changed for the best. Mom was happy. No, not really happy, but happier. Anguish didn't tear at her mind, pulling her away from us. We were so happy. Dad loved being around Mom and I. Mom loved Dad and I. She still does, but the love was different then. She loved us because she wanted to, not because she had to. The way sunlight hit her eyes was stunning. I fell in love with the way just looking at her could comfort me. Her eyes were a beautiful light brown, so welcoming. Even her honey hair was soft, like the fur of an old teddy bear. I always told myself I'd end up with somebody just like her. Well, somebody like her that I could touch. Then B came along. She was everything Mom couldn't be. Spontaneous kisses and breathless touches filled my days.

I met her the summer that Dad lost Mom. We were at the beach. We went for the three months between school years starting when I turned eight. The world was so different there. It wasn't quite the world I had when I was only seven, but it certainly wasn't the world I had grown into as the years went on. The way each boat-caused wave rolled onto shore was bewildering. Shells and various rocks, shining in the sun, changed shape so many times through the years as the water brushed over them. The lake was my favorite place to go.

Usually, it was my place. It was the only place to go with my family where we could be just that. A family. No questions intruded on us. Nobody was wondering why Mom acted like a child. Nobody was wondering why Dad stuck around.

We played on the beach together. At first I was hesitant to build sandcastles with Mom. Dad tried and tried to convince me. Stubbornly, I sat in the lawn chairs we'd brought and watched them build. Everyday they took me down to the beach, only a few hundred feet from the little cabin we rented, though, I inched forward. Not enough for them to notice, but enough for me to get a better look. I was curious about the way they played.

It was almost like two children meeting for the first time. Dad would push her to her physical limits. His hands would graze hers as he reached for her matching shovel and bucket set. They were rainbow and had little faces on them. Uncomfortably, she would push him away from her toys. She wasn't touching them, but didn't want anybody else to, either. Every once in awhile, she'd look up. As soon as her eyes met his, though, she'd look away again. It was like they didn't know each other.

Finally, after two weeks of watching, waiting, I joined them. Everyday, we made sandcastles together. Not _together_ together, but Mom let Dad and I sit next to her and build. It was an odd sight to see.

Then, one day, B was there. She watched. I didn't see her until she kicked my half-built palace down.

"Oh, was that your castle? I'm sorry."

The sun shone brightly. I had to squint and cover my eyes with my hands to see her. She was certainly a sight for my young body. I think she was my first hard-on. The way her long, dark hair covered her body made me question whether she was wearing a bikini top or not.

She saw me staring. "What, you never seen a girl in a swimsuit before?" She flipped her hair over her shoulder, revealing a bright red top. "Stop looking, you pervert."

The things she said to me were mean. Her voice was that of a seductress, though. I couldn't help but feel her magic pull.

"I'm Mark Fitzgerald," I said, reaching out my hand to shake hers. She didn't know what I was doing and kept hers glued to her hips. I accidently grabbed her breast. It felt good in my hand. I wanted to keep hold, but I quickly yanked away.

She looked annoyed, but not surprised. "What are you doing, Fitz?"

In shock, I looked over my shoulder to see if Dad was staring. I saw that he moved down by the water to make sure Mom kept her little nose above the water. Slowly, I turned back to the girl. I wanted to correct her. My name wasn't Fitz. It was Mark. Fitz felt right, though. I loved the way it rolled out of her mouth; it was like a short melody. The only thing I could manage to choke up was, "I don't know."

She laughed. "Want to come hang out with me and some friends?" She looked over her shoulder. I saw a group of older guys and a few girls lingering by an old pick-up truck. She looked back at me.

"How old are you guys?"

She laughed again. Her laugh was the first thing I ever desribed as sexy. "_I'm_ twelve. You?"

I couldn't believe she was my age. I followed without asking my parents. The thought didn't even cross my mind until I was in the bed of the truck, laying with the girl at my feet. I didn't even know her name was Bianca until the fourth or fifth day of them picking me up. I didn't care. All I wanted was to be wanted by her.

A few weeks into my meetings with the girl and her crew, Dad tried to make me stay at the beach with him and Mom. She didn't care either way. She just wanted to keep playing in the sand. It was cute how innocent she was.

"Mark, we come to the beach to have family time. I don't like you running around with that girl. She barely wears clothes!"

I looked at Mom. She smiled up at me, not taking any notice to the situation. All I could do was laugh at Dad. It was a cruel laugh. I realize that now. I didn't then. I just wanted to go spend time with B. I loved the way her body made me feel. My feet understood what my mind wanted, and took off. I ran to the truck.

"Mark, you get back here!" Dad yelled after me.

"What's going on?" My mom asked him, standing up to be level with him. He tried to put an arm around her shoulders reassuringly, but she moved away from him.

"Don't worry about it, Jill. It's going to be okay. He'll come back," I heard him say as he gathered himself again.

I did come back, but not for hours. It was almost night, the moon clearly visible just above the horizon in the darkening sky, when we rolled back by. I slammed the door of the truck as hard as I could so that Dad would know I was home. The guys all yelled at me, but drove away laughing. I laughed along, walking up the path to the beach. It was nearly dark and I wanted to make sure Mom and Dad weren't still there. Sure enough, Dad was. Mom was nowhere in sight.

I wanted to call out to him; show him I was fine. Something was wrong, though. He was just walking back from our cabin, scanning the beach. I saw his legs push into a run.

"Dad, where's Mom?"

He didn't answer me as he reached the beach and ran up and down the shoreline.

"Where is Mom?" I yelled again, trying to catch up with him.

His eyes darted all around him, trying to locate her.

"She came to the cabin with me to eat, but I went to the bathroom. When I came back out, she was gone. Oh, God, Mark. What if something happened?"

We looked for hours. She was no where. I felt something inside me shrivel up. Things like this were only supposed to happen on the news and in movies. It didn't seem right that Mom was gone. It was my fault, though. If I'd stayed with them, she wouldn't have snuck away. I'd forgotten that she didn't know what harm could come to her by exploring all by herself.

We were both about ready to give up looking and call the police when she came waddling out of the water. The fresh lakewater dripped off of her in waves. It looked like she'd been crying, but there was no way for me to be sure. I ran to her, leaving Dad in my wake. His guilt was a black hole, trying to draw me into it, but I kept running. I finally reached her and hugged her until I thought it would hurt her. I felt her muscles struggling to pull away. She hated the touch; she wanted to get away. I didn't care. I kept a strong hold on her.

"Mom, you can't just leave like that."

She didn't say anything.

"Mom, can you hear me?"

The next day, we went home. As our van drove off towards the highway that would take us home, I turned in my seat and tried to find my new friend one last time. I was sure I would never see her again. My heart felt heavy. I didn't say another word the rest of the ride home. Neither did my parents. Things were different now.


End file.
